


but the sun shifting changes the shape

by blackkat



Series: Role Swap AUs [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Kidnapping, Clan Politics, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, Senju!Mito, Uzumaki!Hashirama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 15:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Delicately, Izuna drags Madara's white-knuckled hand off his collar. “Madara, you're wrinkling it,” he complains, but Madara isn't paying attention. His eyes are fixed on the figure in the center of the group, elaborate, heavy kimono and concealing hood. The group is slowing, apparently taking advantage of the stretch of open land around the road to rest, and Madara studies Mito's betrothed, the way one of the attendant shinobi laughs with him as he eases the hood back.Izuna whistles, long and low. “I guess the Uzumaki aren’t skimping,” he says. “He’s pretty.”





	but the sun shifting changes the shape

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Hi! For the role reversal thing, what if Mito was a Senju and Hashirama married into the clan (originally an Uzumaki)? Idk about who gets Mokuton and who is a sealing genius, just... two warring clans suddenly get a hyperactive and dangerous idiot thrown at them. A goofball of destruction and friendship. Who wants them to make friends and end the war already, because he came here yesterday and has already Enough Of This.

“Who is _that_?” Izuna demands, a low hiss that’s still almost too loud.

Madara groans, hauling his brother back by the collar. “I don’t _know_,” he retorts. “Which is why we’re _spying_.”

Hikaku, beside them, sighs like he’s very, very tired. “Those clan markings are from Uzushio,” he points out. “Senju Mito was going to accept a marriage contract with Uzushio, wasn’t she?”

It takes effort for Madara not to grit his teeth at the reminder of his former best friend and current nemesis; Mito has always been just out of his reach, just a little too far ahead with her fuinjutsu and her refusal to waver, to bow, to bend. It sometimes feels like Madara will never catch up to her, will always be in her shadow, and now _this_? She’s ahead of him in starting a family, too?

Delicately, Izuna drags Madara's white-knuckled hand off his collar. “Madara, you're wrinkling it,” he complains, but Madara isn't paying attention. His eyes are fixed on the figure in the center of the group, elaborate, heavy kimono and concealing hood, just a hint of breadth across the shoulders to hint that it’s a man or a very well-built woman. The group is slowing, apparently taking advantage of the stretch of open land around the road to rest, and Madara studies the bride, the way one of the attendant shinobi laughs with him as he eases the hood back.

Izuna whistles, long and low. “I guess the Uzumaki aren’t skimping,” he says. “He’s pretty.”

“The Clan Head has a son, doesn’t she?” Madara manages, not quite able to look away from the man’s face. Handsome, kind, and the masses of black hair pulled up into an elaborate design look soft, as dark as a raven’s wing.

“Disappointing for the Uzumaki, I'm sure,” Hikaku murmurs. “I bet she wanted a girl, so she’d have an heir. But yes. Doesn’t he have a rare bloodline?”

Pretty _and _dangerous, then. Madara frowns, and—

The Uzumaki and Senju entering into an alliance is terrible for the Uchiha. Madara's hands curl into fists as he imagines just _how_ terrible; at best they’ll be overwhelmed, and at worst exterminated by the clans’ might. He and Mito might have been friends once, and that consideration might lend mercy to her actions, but it’s not a risk Madara can bear to take with his clan.

Right now, though, the Uzumaki below them are few in number, focused on their prince. Even if he’s a shinobi with a rare talent, he looks like a soft heart; if they capture one of his shinobi, he might surrender. The thought of trapping him in marriage makes Madara's stomach churn, but surely, surely it’s a better thing than allowing the Senju-Uzumaki alliance to go forward.

Maybe, eventually, he’ll be able to find it in himself not to hate Madara for this.

(Maybe, eventually, Madara won't hate himself for it either, but—

Family always has to come first.)

“Hikaku,” he says quietly. “Gather the rest of the squad. We’ll intercept the Uzumaki and take the prince.”

Hikaku casts him a look of alarm, but doesn’t protest. Inclines his head, slips away, and leaves Izuna to stare at Madara like he’s grown another head.

“_Madara_?” he demands.

“Be quiet,” Madara snaps, and pulls his gunbai from his back. “It’s better for all of us if none of them make it to the Senju compound.”

“Killing them would work better,” Izuna retorts, but he draws his sword even so, follows Madara out of the trees. In the shadows beyond, Madara can just catch the flash of figures moving swiftly, separating to surround the Uzumaki, and he takes a breath, steels himself, and stalks forward.

“You're on Uchiha lands,” he calls, and watches the prince lift his head, the ornaments in his hair catching the sunlight. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have my shinobi execute you right here.”

Dark eyes widen, and the man rises to his feet, one quick motion that settles him in a ready stance without effort. Definitely a trained shinobi, not that Madara would have expected differently from the eldest son of the Uzumaki Clan’s leader. But he doesn’t immediately reach for a weapon, raises a hand to hold his guards back, and Madara feels a grim sort of certainty sink into his chest. A soft heart indeed, and no idea that he should be wary of the Uchiha when he’s intending to reach the Senju.

“We’re just passing through,” the man says, taking a step towards Madara like he’s intending to soothe his temper. Not quite close enough, though Madara can feel Izuna tense behind him. Izuna's quicker, might be able to grab one of the nearer shinobi as a hostage, and Madara knows his brother’s style well enough to know he’ll certainly try.

“No toll for those who keep up the road?” Izuna asks, light, easy, only faintly menacing. Madara watches the prince’s eyes slide to him, one quick, wary flicker, watches his mouth pull into a frown.

“If you’re going to require a toll, maybe put up a sign,” the man says, a joke, warm and even lighter than Izuna's tone. “We don’t have anything prepared, I'm afraid.”

“Only prepared for a wedding,” Madara says, tighter than he intends. When the prince’s eyes flicker back to him, wary, Madara smiles thinly. “I’m afraid you—”

“Hashirama!” a hated, beloved voice shouts. “Get away from him!”

Madara bristles instantly, spinning. It’s no surprise at all to see Mito, fully armored with seals painted across the metal, kunai in hand, advancing from the treeline. Her rat of a brother, probably the one to alert her to Madara's presence near her fiancé, is behind her, along with a large squad from her clan, and Madara scowls.

“Mito,” he snarls, and lunges. Mito cries out, furious, but in the same moment Madara grabs Hashirama, drags him back with an arm around his throat, and he can _feel_ the cry of surprise, the jolt, the way Hashirama jerks at his arm and then stops short, intimately aware of just how easily Madara can break his neck from this position.

“Madara,” Mito says, sharp, _furious_, and Madara looks at her and sees the little girl he met on a riverbank so many years ago, weary of war. _Aches_, but—

His clan has to come first. He decided that at the riverbank, too.

“If you thought I would let this pass unremarked, you don’t know me at all, Mito,” Madara tells her, and pretends it doesn’t make his heart twist to see that look in her eyes, desperation, determination, fury and fight all wrapped up in betrayal. Tells himself that this is the only way to negate the influence of the Uzumaki before it can upend their balance completely—with Hashirama married to the Uchiha, the stalemate will continue.

“I thought I did,” Mito says, low, because she’s always known his weakest points.

Madara drags in a breath that burns, lets it out slowly. Smirk at her, because bravado is the only answer he has, and says, “Think of it as saving you from an arranged marriage. Didn’t you always say you hated the idea?”

Chakra flickers around Mito's hand, as sharp as broken glass and as strong as a hurricane. Instantly, Madara tenses, readying his gunbai, and he doesn’t _think_ she’ll go right through her future husband, but with that expression on her face, there's very little she _won't_ do. He calls up the start a Katon jutsu as her Fuuton rises, whipping the seals on her buns, and—

A hand curls around Madara's arm where it’s pressed to Hashirama’s throat, a firm grip, not bruising. “Stop,” Hashirama says, pulls.

Madara is a strong man, a shinobi who relies on his body to be a weapon. He’s holding tightly, paying attention, keeping another shinobi prisoner and fully aware of it.

Despite all of that, his arm still moves.

In an instant, Madara's no longer holding a hostage. Hashirama ducks out of his grasp, darts away, and Madara's grab only catches one of the kanzashi in his hair. It comes free with a chime, and Hashirama drops. In the same moment, Hikaku cries out, and the Uchiha leap for the Senju as the Senju lunge in return. Madara wants to go after Hashirama, but Mito is too quick, suddenly right in front of him with a war cry, violet eyes furious. She’s beautiful, deadly, and Madara knows she’s the greatest threat. He abandons his grab for the prince, bringing his gunbai around hard.

And then, louder, resonant, _thunderous_, Hashirama cries, “_Stop_!” and brings his hands together in a seal.

There’s a split second of suspended time, an instant of pressure and chakra and _power_ that vibrates along Madara's bones. And then, like an eruption, green devours the world in a drowning rush, and Madara is too busy trying not to die to think of anything else at all.

When Madara finally claws his way out of a mass of greenery, the open meadow is an old-growth forest, the trees massive and dark and looming, barely any light trickling through the thick canopy. there's no more road, either, and with the tight press of trees Madara feels sorry for anyone who needs to get a cart through.

“Ugh,” Izuna mutters, sprawled across a massive branch high above Madara's head. His foot is caught in a thick knot of branches, but that seems to be the worst of it, and when Madara checks the surrounding area, he can't see any dead bodies, whether Senju or Uchiha. Mito herself is a few yards away, unburying herself from a tangle of lichen, and in between her and Madara, sitting on a fallen tree like he’s some wandering monk, Hashirama tips his head, frowning at both of them.

His hair is coming loose from its elaborate knot, dark strands tumbling down to frame his handsome face, and Madara's fingers tighten convulsively on the kanzashi still in his hand.

When he glances across the little patch of forest, Mito is staring at Hashirama, too, and she looks equally as breathless as Madara feels.

“Two hours I've been in your territory,” Hashirama says quietly, and he sounds _disappointed_. It’s astonishingly crushing. “And I've passed more battlefields than I can count. When we arranged this marriage, I had thought the fighting had eased.”

“It has,” Mito says, and brushes a strand of crimson hair out of her face. Her mouth is set in a firm line, and when she straightens, she’s every inch the clan head Madara has met to many times. But—there’s a shadow to her, a girl with skinned knees and dreams a size too big, who smiled at Madara and touched his hand and laughed with him, and Madara wants to look away but can't. “Hashirama—”

“It eased, but this alliance will only worsen it,” Madara bites out, taking a step forward. Around him, the trees stir as if moved by an unfelt wind, and Madara grits his teeth and forces himself to ease. “If you plan to crush the Uchiha with this alliance, Mito—”

Mito bristles, eyes snapping with fury. “I _wouldn’t_,” she snaps. “And I wouldn’t try to kidnap your betrothed, either, Madara—”

“_Enough_,” Hashirama says with just enough force to shut them both up, caught in the middle of the show of his power. He takes a step forward, looking at Mito and then at Madara, and takes a breath. “If you want to preserve your clans, fighting won't solve anything,” he says, almost a plea, and raises his hands. “The best way to save them both is to ally.”

It takes effort not to look at Mito, hearing the echo of words they spoke as children. from the shaky breath she drags in, she feels the same.

“Hashirama,” she says softly. “It isn't so simple—”

“It _is_,” Hashirama says determinedly, and lifts his chin. “I've decided. Mito, I’ll be spending the next week in the Senju compound.”

Relief flickers over Mito's face, but before she can even open her mouth, before Madara can snarl a protest, Hashirama raises a hand to stop them both and says, “And then I’ll spend the week after with the Uchiha.”

“_Hashirama_,” Mito says, offended, concerned. She flicks a dark look at Madara, expression darkening, and says, “We guaranteed your safety, and if you're with the Uchiha, I can't keep that promise.”

Hashirama smiles, quick and cheerful and easy. “I can protect myself,” he tells her firmly, and looks over at Madara. “Do you agree?”

“Yes,” Madara says immediately, and ignores the hiss from Izuna above him. Pauses, slanting a wary look at Mito, and asks, “The marriage?”

Both Mito and Hashirama give him exasperated looks for that. “It’s not a _conspiracy_ against you, Madara,” Mito says crossly, as irritated as a wet cat. “This is my _future husband_.”

Hashirama sighs. “Perhaps,” he says pointedly, “we can all three of us meet one of these days. To _talk_, rather than fight.”

“Talking only worked when we were both idiot children,” Madara says darkly.

“Then maybe it’s time to remember how to be idiots,” Hashirama says cheerfully, and gathers his heavy kimono around himself, then sweeps out of the patch of forest like it’s the Daimyō’s palace.

In Hashirama's wake, Mito stares at Madara, and Madara stares at Mito. Takes a breath, dropping his gunbai over his shoulder, and finally offers, “Not as terrible as you were expecting.”

Mito makes a face she should really be too dignified for. “Not as ugly as you were expecting,” she retorts, “or you wouldn’t have tried to take him for yourself.”

Madara splutters. “That was _tactical_!” he protests.

Expression disbelieving, Mito cocks a brow at him. “To my _everlasting_ regret, we have the same taste in men. Don’t even try to lie to me.”

Madara is _not_ turning red. He refuses. “We _might_,” he snaps. “But that has no bearing on _anything_.”

“I should hope not,” Mito agrees tartly, and turns, stalking after Hashirama.

She almost kissed him once, when they were children. Madara breathes in, breathes out, remembers that, and turns away.

It doesn’t matter now. It won't. It _can't_.

Through the trees, he catches a glimpse of Mito stopping at Hashirama’s side, leaning towards him just a little. Mito in her armor, burning with chakra, Hashirama in beautiful robes with his hair sliding loose from its knot, and Madara looks at them both and _wants_, more than he’s ever wanted anything before.


End file.
